Claude's Confession and Other Early Novels of Émile Zola. Эмиль Золя

clearly” within me; the evil is torn away, I find the world as I left it, broad for youthful courage, luminous, full of applause. I will resume my labor, recover my strength, struggle in the name of my faith, in the name of my tenderness.

      Make a place for me beside you, brothers, let us live in the pure air, in the fields sparkling with sunbeams, in our pure love. Let us prepare ourselves for life by loving each other, by going hand in hand in freedom beneath the blue sky. Wait for me, and make Provence sweeter, more encouraging, to receive me and restore me my childhood.

      Last night, when at the window, in the presence of Marie’s corpse, I purified myself with faith, I saw the sky, full of gloom, whiten at the horizon. All night long I had had before my eyes the black stretch of space, pricked by the yellow light of the stars; I had vainly sounded the infinity of the sombre gulf, growing terrified at the immense calmness, at the unfathomable depths. This calmness and these depths were lighted up; the darkness quivered and slowly rolled back, allowing its mysteries to be seen; the fear inspired by the gloom gave place to the hope inspired by the growing brightness. The whole sky grew inflamed, little by little; it acquired rosy tints as soft as smiles; it bathed in the pale light, sparkling with faint brilliancy. And, alone in the presence of this tearing away of the night, of this slow and majestic birth of the day, I felt in my heart a young, invincible strength, an immense hope.

      Brothers, it was the dawn.

      THE END

      THE DEAD WOMAN’S WISH

      Main TOC

      Translated by Count C. de Soissons

        PROLOGUE

        CHAPTER I

        CHAPTER II

        CHAPTER III

        CHAPTER IV

        CHAPTER V

        CHAPTER VI

        CHAPTER VII

        CHAPTER VIII

        CHAPTER IX

        CHAPTER X

        CHAPTER XI

        CHAPTER XII

        CHAPTER XIII

       CHAPTER XIV

      PROLOGUE

      Table of Contents

      TOWARDS the end of 1831, in the Semaphore of Marseilles, the following paragraph might have been read: —

      “Last night a great fire destroyed several houses in the little village of St. Henri. The glare of the flames, whose reflection reddened the sea, was seen from this town, and all who happened to be on the Edoumè rocks were enabled to be present at a spectacle at once frightful and sublime.

      “Exact details have not yet reached us. Several remarkable instances of bravery are, however, recorded. To-day we are only able to record one heart-stirring incident of this catastrophe.

      “The flames spread so rapidly in the lower rooms of one house that it was impossible to give the least help to the inmates. These miserable people were heard uttering piercing cries of terror and distress. Suddenly a woman was seen at one of the windows, holding a young child in her arms. From below, it was noticed that her dress had caught fire. With terror-stricken face and dishevelled hair she stared wildly in front of her, as if smitten with madness.

      “The flames ran rapidly along her skirts, and soon she was a blaze of light. Closing her eyes and pressing the child tightly to her breast, she hurled herself frantically through the window. When the people rushed to lift them up they found that the mother’s skull was crushed, but the child still lived. It stretched out its little hands and cried, as if it wished to escape from the fearful pressure of the dead woman’s arms.

      “We are informed that this child, having no relations whatever in the world, has just been adopted by quite a young girl, whose name is unknown to us, but who belongs to the nobility of the neighbourhood. Such an action has no need of praise. It speaks for itself.”

      CHAPTER I

      Table of Contents

      THE room was dimly lit by the faint glimmer of twilight.

      The window curtains partly drawn aside, allowed the higher branches of the trees to be seen, all tinted red by the last rays of the sun. Below on the Boulevard des Invalides children were playing, and the shrill sound of their laughter floating upward fell soft and pleasing.

      The spring following the dreadful cold of February was often very chilly and sharp. The evenings of May frequently retain some of the freshness of winter in the air. Cold breezes stirred the curtains now, and bore to the ear the distant rumble of carriages.

      Within the house all was gloom. The various articles of furniture, barely perceptible in the obscurity, looked like black spots against the bright paper wall, while the blue carpet grew, little by little, darker and darker. Night had already crept over the ceiling and the comers of the room. Soon, as the darkness fell, scarcely anything was to be seen but a long white streak which, starting from one of the windows, lighted with a pale glimmer the bed on which Madame de Rionne lay in the agony of death.

      At that last hour, in that newly-born sweetness of spring, in this room where a young woman lay dying, there was engendered a mournful feeling of pity. The obscurity became transparent, the stillness assumed an unspeakable sadness, the sounds from without changed into murmurs of regret, and one seemed to hear lamenting voices in the air.

      Blanche de Rionne, sitting propped up by pillows on her bed, was gazing into the gloom with wide-open eyes. The dim light shone on her poor face, wasted by illness; her arms were stretched out on the sheets; her hands, nervously restless, were unconsciously twisting them. Her lips were parted, yet she said nothing, while her body shook with prolonged shivering fits, and she lay and meditated whilst waiting for death, slowly rolling her head from side to side, as dying people do.

      She was barely thirty years of age. Ever a frail creature, her illness had made her still more delicate. This woman undoubtedly possessed courage of a high order; she must have been goodhearted, kind, and sensitive to a supreme degree. Death is the great test, and only in the last agony can one judge truly of men’s courage. And yet one felt there was some spirit of rebellion in her still. At moments her lips quivered, and her hands twisted